


Immaculate Conception

by Fiend_angelical



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Gen, M/M, Mpreg, Possibly Pre-Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:39:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiend_angelical/pseuds/Fiend_angelical
Summary: Crowley’s years of bragging to head office have finally caught up to him when he is chosen to be the demon that carries the Antichrist





	1. Chapter 1

Aziraphale was not a terribly unfazeable person by any stretch of the imagination. Sure, existing in a metaphysical sense on a planet filled with some of the most determined creatures in the universe oftentimes resulted in somewhat unforeseen events. He never claimed to understand the Great Plan by any stretch of the imagination, and he had learned long ago not to question the motives of others in any sort of particularly deconstructive way. After 6,000 years on earth, taking things as they came became the most comfortable way to operate- work for the greater good, keep your head down, and don’t even bother questioning the motives of above or below. He’d learned back in the garden that if he worried to much he’d make himself ill trying to make sense of it all. Everything happened for a reason, after all, and so, intellectually, Aziraphale had learned to conceptualise everything into the will of the divine and hardly anything could startle him anymore.

That was until Crowley telephoned him late one night, urging Aziraphale to join him for lunch to discuss the end of the world.

Now, Aziraphale was not naïve. He knew that the end of the world would inevitably occur. Good would triumph over evil, the rapture would purge the unworthy, so on and so forth, he’d read Revelations. But the sudden realisation that it was actually happening, combined with the hint of unease in Crowley’s voice, was a little jarring, if not unexpected.

“You- surely you don’t mean the apocalypse?” He’d urged incredulously into the receiver, even though he knew full well that that is exactly what Crowley meant. His friend was prone to exaggeration at times, but he was not as deceitful and he would have downstairs believe, especially not to Aziraphale. 

“The apocalypse, the end-times, the Great War- whatever you want to call it, yes, I do mean it.” Crowley was yelling over the sound of his radio, sounded altogether serious as anything. Aziraphale heard the muffled screech of tires and winced.

“Well, all right, what is it then?” Aziraphale tried to not sound as if he was prying too much, even if it was justified. 

“Not now. I can’t tell you now. It’s-“ Crowley faltered, exasperation communicating the enormity of what he failed to say. “Just meet me tomorrow, the usual place?”

“Of course I will, how about ten o'clock?” Aziraphale’s words were jumbled and hasty. If he had possessed the anatomy of a human, he assumed his heart would’ve been pounding. Something about Crowley seemed strung out in a way Aziraphale had never experienced before, and, though few things could faze him in any meaningful way, the helplessness that he felt in the face of the apocalypse and Crowley’s reaction came pretty damn close.

A horn shot through the receiver, making Aziraphale jump. His attention snapped back to the phone in an instant. “Are you alright?”  
Crowley whooped, but something about it seemed almost ominous. “Just be there. I need to talk to you.” And with that, the line clicked off and Aziraphale was alone again.

Something was definitely wrong, besides all of the end of the world nonsense. But he couldn’t puzzle it out. Crowley would have had every reason to be upset about the situation, they all would. But something about the finality of his voice sent a diver of unease up Aziraphale’s spine. It wasn’t a tone Crowley had taken in a good while, and it was one of the things that reminded him that the being he was friends with was indeed one of the fallen who had done more that Aziraphale could begin to understand. It made him starkly aware of their difference, and in those moments, he would falter.

Crowley was afraid.

Their table at the Ritz had (miraculously) been open for them and they didn’t say anything during the first two hours of their meal. Aziraphale took advantage of the lovely dessert menu, all the while watching his demonic friend. Crowley day almost unmoving, reminding Aziraphale almost unnervingly of his snake form- when Crowley was a snake it never bothered him, but the marriage of the attitude and Crowley’s human form, which was often more extravagant that situationally necessary, was unnerving. He had a stiffness about him that Aziraphale would be loathe to interrupt, and the addition of the sunglasses, though necessary for their public appearance, gave Aziraphale the unnerving feeling that Crowley was watching him with rapt attention. He sat in silence with his chin resting on his hand, but it was posed, and Crowley’s left hand that rested oh so elegantly on the table was trembling slightly.

At last, Aziraphale’s gaze darted toward the waiter who had been giving them funny looks all afternoon and decided to take the plunge. “Should we indulge in some Champagne?”

Surprisingly, Crowley just held up his hand. 

“Can’t.” Then, quieter, “Boss’s orders.”

The air almost crackled with the intensity of the information.

“How so?” Aziraphale prodded carefully.

Crowley breathed in for a long moment.

“It’s the antichrist.” He slowly pressed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and Aziraphale felt his throat tighten with pity.

“Hell has decided that after all this time, now is the time to bring the antichrist forth. And since I am such a successful exploiter of human error, I have been the one chosen to deliver him.”

“Oh! Alright,” Aziraphale proposes, already considering workarounds. “Well, if you’re going to deliver him we’ll just see he’s with a family that ought to balance him out-“

“No.” Crowley shook his head distractedly. “No, you don’t- I mean, downstairs say it worked out so well for you lot, and- look, I mean it.” He refused to meet Aziraphale’s eyes, grabbing his upper arm with his opposite hand and drumming his fingers nervously.

“Pardon?”

Crowley tossed his head in an agitated manner, and Aziraphale could bear one of his feet tapping erratically on the floor. . “When I say deliver him, I mean-“ he made a fist and pressed his thumb into his cheekbone. “ I mean it literally.”

“Yes, I know.” Crowley’s agitation was rubbing off on him. “Is it a logistical question? When he will be given to you or-“ he trailed off, not sure if he was trying to guide Crowley or himself to the answer.

“I mean,” Crowley hissed, frustration and fear bleeding into his words. “I’m going to deliver him. Have a kid. I’m the bloody virgin or whatever the fuck.”

Aziraphale stopped. “Wait, you’re-“

“Right.”

“Oh.”

Crowley let out a shaky breath that was almost a laugh, but it fell too flat and they both knew it.

“Poetic, right?” His voice cracked, and on instinct Aziraphale reach his hand out to cover Crowley’s. Crowley jerked back as if he had been stung, retracting into himself and looking away. Aziraphale awkwardly retracted his hand, his mind whirling. Perhaps some sliver of hurt had shown on his face because Crowley’s features softened a bit. Aziraphale rubbed his eye distractedly, trying to seem nonchalant, but nothing about the situation lent itself to that.

Trying to ignore him, Crowley shakily continued “They’re always joking about me going native. It’s a lovely fucking punishment that I have to bring about the end of it, and I can’t even get drunk.”

Aziraphale was at a loss.

“Not even wine?” He ventured, kicking himself internally as soon as the words left his mouth. 

“No.” Fortunately or unfortunately, Crowley was too distraught to notice.

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale exhaled unable to find the words to say. “Why don’t we go back to my place,” he proposed quietly, measured and unsure.

Crowley looked up at him for a long moment, his glasses fixing him with an indecipherable stare. Suddenly very self conscious, Aziraphale stood up jerkily and adjusted his waistcoat. He distractedly shelled out some bills for his desserts and, against his better judgement, held out his hand to Crowley.

“You don’t suppose head office would object to a little bit of tea?”

Crowley lifted his eyes to meet Aziraphale’s, and behind the tinted lenses, Aziraphale could see his yellow eyes tired and pained. Again Aziraphale felt a pang of pity for his best friend. “Come on, dear,” he sighed finally.

After a second of silence, Crowley tentatively took his hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley deals with the first symptoms of pregnancy

Aziraphale loved his bookshop more than he could adequately express. History was just so expansive, and he felt humbled being surrounded by so much knowledge, so much life and understanding. Yet for weeks, he had been reading almost every book he thought might contain some bit of information on supernatural pregnancies to no avail.

Aziraphale sighed, closing his most recent book and setting it aside. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the centre of the shop, light streaming down on him. Behind him, sitting on a plush reading chair was Crowley, his head lolled back on the top of the chair with his neck and adam’s apple exposed. He wore his glasses and had one arm resting on the armrest with the other idiling on his thigh. He hadn’t moved much in the three-or-so weeks since their lunch at the Ritz except to accept tea from Aziraphale or to quickly pop over to his flat to mist and scold his plants, and deep down Aziraphale was a little relieved. Crowley has no patience for reading, and if Aziraphale knew anything about human pregnancies he was glad that he didn’t have to deal with a bout of cynicism combined with the emotional swings quite yet.

“Any luck?” Crowley ventured, his voice flat with knowledge of the negative.

“No,” Aziraphale breathed, looking up at the shelves in front of him.  
“They really didn’t tell you anything?”

“Not a damn thing,” Crowley muttered, disdain bleeding into his words. “Hastur just told me that I had been presented with such a great honour…” he trailed off. “Nothing about the process or anything. I suppose that would ruin the fun of it all.”

“But is it metaphysical? They said you couldn’t drink, so there must be something physical about it.” He left the sentence hanging, hoping Crowley would pick up the lead and tell him without his having to ask.

He never got an answer, because suddenly, Aziraphale heard the shuffling of papers and turned around rapidly to see Crowley disappearing up his stairs onto the second floor. He then heard a disgusting, wretched noise that would’ve turned his stomach had he had one. Cautiously, Aziraphale followed him, placing the sounds to his never used toilet at the end of the hall. The door was slightly open, and he heard Crowley moan in pain and frustration.

“Crowley?” He ventured, feeling horribly useless, standing awkwardly in the hall. 

After a couple moments more of that horrible noise, Crowley groaned in response. The toilet flushed and Aziraphale heard the water running in his sink.

Crowley pulled open the door, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and tucking his glasses into his shirt pocket. His hair was disheveled and he was panting heavily, his hand resting on the door to steady himself, and Aziraphale felt his chest seize in pain. 

“Oh, Crowley,” he offered helplessly, meeting his friend’s slitted eyes. Crowley swallowed and looked down and away.

“Well that answers that, I suppose,” Crowley snapped, sounding only tired.

“Come again?”

“I guess I’m going to experience it somewhat like a human, angel.” He dropped his hand from the doorknob and ran his hand shakily through his hair. “Sorry about the mess, I think I got most of it.”

“Don’t worry about the mess,” Aziraphale pleaded. “It’s not like I use it anyway. Are you alright?”

“Tip-top.” Crowley closed his eyes for a moment, steading himself. Then he promptly turned and sank onto the bed in the room beside him, his head buried in his hands.

“I’ve never-“ he struggled, and Aziraphale felt his metaphysical heart break.”I’ve never really felt-“

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale quickly sat next to him, reaching out to try to comfort his friend. In an instant, he remembered the incident at lunch and snatched his hand away, folding them meekly in his lap, being as unubtrosive as possible. At the sagging of the mattress under Aziraphale’s weight Crowley stiffened, his body tight with anticipation. A moment of silence passed, and Aziraphale gazed helplessly at the side of Crowley’s head, the tangled red hair hiding his face. Heart aching, Aziraphale took a breath. “Crowley?”

Crowley was still for a long moment before he sighed deeply and dissolved into frightened trembling.

“It hurts,” he muttered, so quiet Aziraphale almost didn’t hear him. “You’re always so in your head about this sort of thing so I didn’t want to tell you but damn it, Angel,” he balled his hands into fists, grinding them into his eye sockets. 

“You mean- oh, dear you should’ve told me,”  
Aziraphale said quietly, the urge to reach out and touch his friend stronger than ever

“No I shouldn’t!” Crowley stood suddenly, channeling his anger into Aziraphale’s floorboards. “I shouldn’t have even told you! It’s in your very being to care about every bloody dust mite, even if it’s destined to destroy you!” His voice was angry, desperate, and bitter, rolling with internal conflicts Aziraphale couldn’t begin to understand.

“Well of course it is! You’re my-“ he blinked rapidly, glancing around at the ceiling as if it had some answer to the horrible mess he found himself in. “I care about you, no matter what the circumstances may be,” Aziraphale cast his eyes downward, feeling strangely defeated. “I’m trying to help you, you and the child-“

“That’s the bloody issue, isn’t it?!” Crowley all but shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “I can’t have you-“ he rubbed his face furiously with his right hand. Then, in a jarring second, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, then unfolded his glasses and put them on.

“I’m going back to my flat.” His tone was dull, almost disinterested.

“Oh, please don’t start with that-“ Aziraphale began, rising to his feet, but Crowley spun on his heel and darted out of the bedroom and onto the stairs. He was gone from the shop before Aziraphale could even fully process what was going on. 

If Aziraphale had had anything other than one of his Salomé first editions near him, he wouldn’t have put it past himself to shelve it with more force than necessary.

Though intellectually he knew that there was no reasoning with Crowley when he was in one of his moods, in the moment it didn’t make a bit of a difference. The last time they had fought like this it had ended in a decade-and-a-half split, and Aziraphale knew they couldn’t afford something like that at a time like this. Frustrated, he stomped down the stairs and sank heavily into his reading chair. 

Crowley could be so difficult. And, while Aziraphale supposed it was the nature of their relationship to be difficult, that didn’t make it any easier. Massaging the bridge of his nose with his fingers, he looked out at the books he had on his desk- the poetry, the plays, the dozens of bibles and various bibilcal books he found at best to be amusing and at worst to be revisionist nonsense. 

Crowley was always putting on some sort of airs, messing about in history however he saw fit. He didn’t give a damn about the plan, the will of anyone, above or below, and that had always fascinated Aziraphale. He always went his own way, swaggering about through life in the most obtrusive way.

To Aziraphale, it always seemed he was incredibly lonely. 

And here, in the bookshop, Aziraphale saw a glimpse behind the curtain, the vulnerability and doubt that Crowley tried not to let him see.

“Oh, if only he would let me help him!” Aziraphale whined, resting his elbows on the table and burying his hands in his hair. Crowley was infuriatingly closed off when he wanted to be, though Aziraphale could read him as well as anyone could, he supposed.

And right now, Crowley needed to be alone.

Aziraphale let himself have ten seconds more, quitetly trying to reign in his swirling thoughts. He was no help to Crowley if he was also panicking, and Crowley would just get more agitated if he didn’t let him have some space. Aziraphale was used to accepting the whims of heaven without complaint- in a way, that sort of thing was antithetical to Crowley’s whole existence. 

“Fine,” he muttered, grabbing another text he had picked up some time in the 1080s. Crowley was right- they at least knew now there was a physical element to the pregnancy, so maybe those biblical speculative pieces on demonic pregnancies would have some information. 

If Crowley didn’t come around in the next week or so, he would go and stage an intervention. But right now he would do what he was good at- keeping his head down and accepting things as they came.

Aziraphale put on his glasses and began to read

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still not sure I got them quite right, but I’ve gotten the whole fic plotted out so I might just finish this one! Thank you so much for the support, I’m honestly a little surprised there’s no audience for this sort of thing, I thought I was the only one. I’ve started the third chapter, I just have to iron it out some more and find a satisfying conclusion that fits into the greater narrative. Right now I’m thinking something like ten chapters with an epilogue?
> 
> Again, I tried to edit as best I could, but there are probably some errors. Again, I apologise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley destresses, though not in the healthiest way.

Crowley’s flat was a mess. 

Though he didn’t own much, what furniture was he had was thrown about on the floor. The plants had blossomed bigger than ever, their fear rolling off them in a way even Aziraphale could understand. The statue that had been displayed so carefully had shattered into thousands of pieces on the floor and Aziraphale heard the crash of glass from the direction of the kitchen in repeated intervals. 

He rounded the corner to see Crowley with his entire stock of liquor set behind him on the kitchen island, picking up a bottle of scotch, and hurling it at the opposite wall with all of his strength. Aziraphale cowered back as it shattered, the smell of the scotch mixing with the alcohol already on the floor and making Aziraphale’s eyes water. If Crowley noticed Aziraphale there, he didn’t pay him any mind before grabbing another bottle of scotch and repeating his destruction.

“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?” Aziraphale managed, thoroughly exasperated. 

Crowley glanced over his shoulder briefly, his expression manic. He hardly looked like the vulnerable man Aziraphale had sitting on his bed a week before.

“Oh, not at all,” he sneered, pausing his tirade to roll the wrist of the hand that held the bottle. “I can't very well drink it, so I might as well not have it around to remind me.” He threw it fiercely at the wall, his face alight with a savage glee at the smashing sound.

“Now stop that!” Aziraphale exclaimed, grabbing his arm as Crowley wrapped his long fingers around the neck of a bottle of Vodka. “You can be as upset as you want, but you’re risking discorporation.”

Crowley groaned and pulled his arm away. “Oh, stop patronising me, angel.” He snapped his fingers and the bottles and furniture wavered, and then were restored. “It’s not that big of a deal.” He said, sauntering out of the kitchen.

Aziraphale followed him into his office, selfishly relieved at the return of their rhythmic banter.  
“I can’t imagine using your miracles so… frivolously when you’re already so taxed is a good idea.”

“‘Good’ isn’t exactly my strong suit,” Crowley said, sitting on his desk. “Why are you so up in arms about this? I used a little demonic energy, it’s not like it’s the end of the world.”

Aziraphale bit back a pointed reply about how it very well could be the end of the world and who knows what could happen if he wasn’t careful and just rolled his eyes. “I told you I was going to do some research, because you said that they didn’t tell you anything-“

“They don’t know anything, that’s what,” Crowley took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, leaning back and crossing his legs. “They’re all idiots, the whole lot.”

He was clearly trying to change the subject.

“Whatever they are, If it’s not a good idea to drink, it’s not a good idea to use miracles. Manipulating the fabric of reality could have some very serious effects on the child, given they aren’t consciously acting as well,” Aziraphale finished, feeling rather pleased with himself, both for the explanation and his regained control of the topic of conversation.

As expected, Crowley groaned.

“No miracles? Do you know how much of our lives is constructed around the fact that I can pull a few strings here and there?” He glanced around his office, elegant and expensive. “I might actually have to start paying rent.”

“Now, it won’t be so bad,” Aziraphale offered, trying to be a good sport. “Humans live like this all the time, and plenty of humans have had children without the need for miracles.” 

“Plenty of Humans have died without miracles too, angel.” His right hand came to rest on his thigh, just below where the antichrist was hibernating in his body. Crowley’s stance betrayed nothing, was perfectly staged to appear casual, but there was a tension in his body that showed that something had changed. 

“Well, if you need it to be proven, I’ll abstain from performing miracles as well for the duration of your pregnancy.” He put the emphasis pointedly on the last word, which seemed to hover in the air like a physical presence. Crowley’s face twitched almost imperceptibly, and if Aziraphale didn’t know him as well as he did he might have been able to convince himself that he’d imagined it.

“That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”

“I don’t imagine it would be too difficult,” Aziraphale muttered, knowing full well it would and feeling less sure with every passing second, though a little hurt at the implication he wouldn’t be able to survive without a constant supply of divine intervention.

“Yes, it would. Think about it- no more dining at our usual table, putting up with London traffic, actually having to sell your inventory?”  
His hand shifted to his chin as he leaned forward, obscuring his abdomen from scrutiny. “It’s not even an idea I can begin to entertain.”

“Point taken.” Aziraphale quietly accepted his defeat. “I won’t, but that doesn’t mean you should!”

“If I can’t use miracles, what do you expect me to do? Have you perform them for me?”

“If you ever needed me to,” Aziraphale said, fearing he had come off rather needy.

“Oh, I bet you’d have great fun shortchanging my landlord,” Crowley grinned, counting it on his free hand. “Or bribing the waitstaff, not to mention my various temptings I have to perform to keep management off my back-“

“Alright, alright, I see your point,” Aziraphale admitted, scolding himself for letting Crowley slither out of his reach. Sensing his victory, his friend shot him a wily grin. 

“But performing them is just going to get more difficult as time goes on- there was a delay earlier, for example! Already the child is beginning to affect your ability-“

“Fine, I’ll stop doing as many- can we not talk about this?” The playful Crowley was suddenly gone, exposing a tired man looking pointedly up at the ceiling to avoid enhancing his vulnerability. “Not every conversation we have has to be about it, alright?”

“I thought you wanted me to help,” Aziraphale reached out to grab the back of Crowley’s massive chair. 

“I do, I do, but we don’t have to go making it more important than it is right now,”  
He crossed his arms over his chest, and Aziraphale thought he looked smaller. “I’m starting to think it’s the only reason you come around.”

“Oh, you know that isn’t true,” Aziraphale muttered, but he suddenly didn’t feel as sure.   
“And it is important!”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Crowley’s foot was tapping again. “I’m going to have to deal with all of that later, so I just don’t want to think about it.” He closed his eyes and ran his left hand through his hair, his right coming back to the place on his thigh for a brief second before sliding away to rest on his knee.

“It could be dangerous if you don’t acknowledge that carrying a child is what’s happening,” Aziraphale said, feeling uncomfortable. He could deal with snarky, sassy, inconsiderate and rude Crowley as easily as reading a well worn novel. But this Crowley seemed so fragile he hardly knew what to do.

“I’m not- ignoring it,” Crowley tried to sound nonchalant, “I just want to spend time with you that isn’t focused on it. Can’t we do that, at least for a little while?”

Aziraphale was backed into a corner- he couldn’t say no, because it would be too intentionally hurtful, but if he said yes, it might lead to more complications in the future.

“Alright,” he sighed, dropping his hand from the chair. “But please don’t hesitate to ask me if you need anything.”

“Alright, mum,” Crowley grinned, and slid off the desk, his façade restored. “I don’t suppose you would be against one small miracle if I were to tempt you to lunch,”

In spite of himself, Aziraphale relaxed into a smile. It was exhausting when they argued, and despite all logic suggesting otherwise, Aziraphale convinced himself that avoiding getting Crowley upset was just as important in a reduction of his energy expenditure. “Just don’t let me see you do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a lot better about this chapter, I think I got ahold of Crowley’s voice in this. Thank you for all the wonderful comments, it’s really inspiring to me. And don’t worry, the next chapter is going to be a lot more angsty and involved with regards to the actual pregnancy. I really hope you’ll enjoy this chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reality of the situation starts to set in

So their uneasy arrangement continued.

Bringing justice to his reservations, Aziraphale noticed the way Crowley continually squirmed out of acknowledging his pregnancy, even though the evidence was becoming undeniable. Crowley looked different- the circles under his eyes darkened and his face became more gaunt, and he walked with a straighter posture than Aziraphale had ever seen. He had changed his normal attire to looser, more shapeless garments and sat with his elbows on his knees or very close to a table wherever one was available. 

But the main tell was the way he acted. More and more, Aziraphale caught him staring off into the distance, lost in thought with his hand on his thigh. It usually only lasted a couple of seconds before he was back to his usual self, but it seemed almost fake in the performance of it. When he picked up Aziraphale from the bookshop to go to St. James, he was quieter, more careful, and Aziraphale had never felt so distant. 

Despite all of the changes, Crowley continually insisted nothing was amiss. He continually pretended to forget that anything was different and only responded to Aziraphale’s prompting in short answered that killed the momentum of conversation.

But Aziraphale was worried about him. From the days he went to Crowley’s flat and arrived too early and got a glimpse of the extent of his morning sickness, to the ignored bills Aziraphale quietly miracled away, to the slight curve in Crowley’s lower torso. Oh, how it fascinated Aziraphale. Angels and Demons were metaphysical beings- they didn’t need to eat, didn’t need sleep, wounds were often temporary and the only thing one had to worry about was discorporation for fear of the bureaucracy they would have to go through to get a new body. The physical symptom of another being taking up space in Crowley’s body was so unexpected, and yet so real. Even though he knew it would violate all boundaries of decency, Aziraphale desperately wanted to touch Crowley’s stomach, to get the closest he ever would to experience something so foreign to him.

“Stop staring,” Crowley muttered, trying to sound irritated but unable to summon the energy. 

“Sorry.”

There were sitting on their bench in the park, Aziraphale rereading Salomé with a French to English dictionary in hand and Crowley absentmindedly tossing bits of a salad he had gotten at lunch to the ducks. Aziraphale liked to think that their silence was comfortable, but it wasn’t quite, and he felt the unease in Crowley as well. 

“You should probably eat some of that,” he ventured, trying to start an argument. Even if he knew it would lead to bickering, Aziraphale hoped he could plant some ideas in the demon’s mind.

“I’m not hungry,” Crowley muttered, rolling his neck a little. As if to spite Aziraphale, he grabbed a handful of iceberg lettuce and threw it into the pond, setting off a terrific volley of noise as the ducks squabbled amongst each other.

“You didn’t eat earlier, either,” Aziraphale returned to his book, cross referencing one of Hérode’s lines in his dictionary, feigning disinterest.  
“I’m not of this earth, I never need to eat.” He waved his foot threateningly at a pigeon that had strayed too close. 

“Well, you need more energy, and eating is probably the most effective manner of gaining it in your current state,” 

Crowley glared at him through his tinted lenses and tossed the rest of the salad over the fence. “I don’t like eating, Aziraphale.”

“And why not?” 

Crowley huffed and propped up his chin on both hands “I don’t like throwing up, is that such a terrible reason?”

“You throw up even when you haven’t eaten,” Aziraphale sighed, bookmarking his place and setting his book aside. God, he could be difficult “Listen, Crowley, you need the energy. Just look at you!”

Crowley looked like he wanted to be angrier, but was too tired to muster it. “So?”

“Oh, please don’t start with that, this is serious,” Aziraphale felt his exasperation building. He was starting to regret that he had spoken up in the first place.

“I told you, I don’t want to talk about this.” Crowley leaned back, pulling his jacket around himself. He slid up his glasses with his right hand, pressing his knuckle into his temple with his eyes closed. 

“Oh, good lord, you’re ignoring it!” Aziraphale looked at Crowley, expressing his frustration by hitting his knee with the side of his wrist. “Don’t you see, Crowley? You’re pretending that this isn’t happening when it very clearly is!” He gestured towards his friend’s stomach, an outline against his black and shapeless clothing. 

“You can’t possibly know that,” Crowley snapped, playing off Aziraphale’s resentment. “You can’t even begin to know what it’s like to have it- have it inside of you.” His voice dropped, and he seemed almost surprised that he’d said it out loud. 

“I can’t fucking pretend it isn’t happening, so I just asked as politely as I could that you don’t have to bring it up-“

Crowley let out a sound something between a cry and a squeak. He froze, and behind his glasses his pupils were so dilated that they almost completely eclipsed his irises.

“Crowley?” A million regrets and scenarios swam around in Aziraphale’s head. “Crowley? What’s wrong?” One hand on the bench, he leant forward and placed his other hand on his shoulder. 

If Crowley had a physical reaction, he was too stiff for it to register through Aziraphale’s fingers.

“I-“ Crowley was terrified, both hands on his stomach. “I think it moved.”

“It moved?” Aziraphale’s apprehension melted away and all he could feel was the unadulterated joy characteristic of an angel. “Oh, Crowley! That’s wonderful!”

Crowley wrapped his arms around himself, shock and disgust creasing his face. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Aziraphale felt Crowley go limp under his hand, and the demon collapsed forward, the heels of his hands pressed hard against his temples. His glasses slipped off his face and tumbled into his lap, exposing his face which had gone chalk white. Aziraphale’s fear rushed back and he tightened his grip. “My dear?”

“This is terrible,” Crowley muttered, rocking back and forth slightly. “No, this- this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“No- no it’s not,” Aziraphale tried to give his friend’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You can feel it, how is that not wonderful?”

“It’s real,” Crowley said, his breath coming in short gasps. “It’s- it’s there!” 

“But that’s perfect!” Aziraphale urged. “It’s behaving almost like a human! Don’t you see? We could turn this around!” Aziraphale nearly laughed from joy. “There is nothing purer in the eyes of- upstairs- than a baby,” 

Crowley groaned, jamming his hands into his eye sockets. 

Aziraphale barely heard him. “I was terribly worried that, because of your demonic nature, that there would be no hope for it. But if it’s human,” Aziraphale was nearly breathless. “If it’s human, than it can be forgiven-“

“It can’t be fucking forgiven, angel! It’s the bloody antichrist!” Crowley shouted, hitting his knees furiously with his fists. His glasses bounced off onto the bench and then onto the cement, the plastic lens fracturing as they skidded away across the pavement. A duck from earlier eyed them warily. “You could have all the love in the universe and not even come close to saving its soul.”

“Well, you have me, for one,” Aziraphale’s joy faltered. “And- surely you must love it too? That’s got to count for something?”

Crowley looked up at him, his yellow eyes unflinching and, looking into them, Aziraphale could feel the power of his demonic nature. “Do I love it?” He gave a short bark of laughter. He looked gaunt, like a cornered animal. “What kind of a question is that? On one hand, I’m a demon. On the other, there is no way in hell I could ever love the antichrist!”

A cold silence descended between them, and a chill settled on Aziraphale when, looking into Crowley’s eyes, he knew he was deadly serious. Numbly, he retracted his hand from Crowley’s shoulder.

“I can’t believe you.”

“What’s not to believe?” Crowley growled, unable to contain his anger. “It’s a basic fact of our existence.”

“Well, all these years, I thought you were better than that!” He grabbed up his books under his arm and stood hurriedly. 

“Evidently I was wrong,”

“No no no, angel, wait!” The stakes seemed to hit Crowley and Aziraphale’s heart clenched as a realisation crossed his face. “You know I didn’t mean it- I wasn’t talking about you-“ he rose to follow, quickly swooped for his glasses, and then lurched unsteadily to his feet. Aziraphale turned quickly and began to stride off as fast as he could without drawing too much more attention, though the effort was futile.

“No, don’t you dare, angel? Angel!”

Aziraphale knew miracling himself away was dirty, especially now, but if Crowley didn’t care about the child he wouldn’t hesitate to follow him. Aziraphale snapped his fingers and collapsed into particles, swirling as fast as he could in no direction in particular, he just knew he had to get as far away as he could from Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was certainly darker than I anticipated it being when I started writing it.  
> I’m probably not going to have reception in the next week or so, so don’t worry if I don’t post a chapter. I’m trying to incorporate some themes into this, but I don’t speak French well enough to really get the intricacies of Salomé, though I adore Oscar Wilde. Also, I’m trying to do research on historical demonic stuff, so that might pop up in the next couple of chapters (see Caitlin Doughty’s video on demon babies for inspiration). I promise I’m going to reply to all of the comments, I find them so inspiring and I really want to make sure I take care with my replies because when I receive replies from authors they always make me happy and I want to do the same. Thank you so much for the support!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale tries to sleep

Aziraphale could never get the hang of sleep.

He’d been trying to sleep for days now, laying in his rarely used bed above his bookshop and trying to shut out his frenzied thoughts. He’d tried reading, but when one is guilty, most things have a nasty habit of reminding them of it, and eventually the allure of turning his mind off became much more attractive than the bright and happy endings of Ernest-John.

Letting out a frustrated huff, Aziraphale sat up and stared at the wall across from him. He had every reason to be upset- he had spent thousands of years thinking Crowley had somehow overcome his demonic nature and could show genuine affection and love, and this revelation brought all of their past history into question- had Crowley ever cared about him, the world, their friendship, or had he just been manipulating him for his own selfish needs?

And the child. That, Aziraphale had no patience for. Surely even a demon couldn’t hate a child. A child that had done nothing, had the potential for good, that could be favoured, turned to a life of service to Her. Surely Crowley understood that- after all, he had once been an angel himself. 

Why did he always have to question things?

Aziraphale leaned forward and rested his head on his hands. He shouldn’t even be thinking about the motivations of Crowley- like he’d said, he was a demon, and it was a basic fact of their existence- Aziraphale followed instructions with his head down, and Crowley made it a point to be as stubborn as possible. They were hereditary enemies, by all accounts, they shouldn’t even be friends.

That thought stopped Aziraphale in his tracks. 

What was he thinking? Of course they were friends! Guilt coursed through him at the idea that he could be so cruel. Crowley never had compromised their friendship. In fact, he had always been pushy about it, constantly trying to show Aziraphale that he cared. Aziraphale felt himself smile sightly in spite of himself, which quickly dissolved into shame. Crowley, who was always there for him, had been emotional, hurt, and scared, and Aziraphale had abandoned him.

He sighed audibly. Their friendship had always been difficult, uncharted, tentative. But, damn it, they had spent just shy of six thousand years working through it together.

Aziraphale miracled himself into his clothes and left his room, all possibility of sleep abandoned.  
If anyone could get Crowley to change, it would be Aziraphale

He could hear the apartment long before he got up to it. 

Bicycle by Queen was playing at that volume where low notes were no longer notes one could hear, communication occurring through vibrations that rattled Aziraphale’s physical form and sent his thoughts scurrying for cover. Wincing and wondering if someone had filed a noise complaint, he miracled the lock open and shut the door quickly behind him, trying to let out as little of the sound as possible. 

The plants were withering in what Aziraphale assumed was annoyance, shaking visibly with the music. The shoes Crowley had been wearing on the day of their fight were tossed to the side, a slight mark where the left one had hit the wall. Dust filtered in around the small amount of sunlight visible through the door, and floated down in a fine layer that billowed up again if it made contact with the reverberating walls or floor.

Crowley’s jacket was wedged in the door leading to the office, as if he had thrown it down and then slammed the door unsatisfyingly shut. Following the trail, Aziraphale stepped gingerly over the jacket, the vocals piercing at their loud volume in a way that could almost convince someone to hate Queen. Crowley’s bedroom door was slightly ajar, and the sound seemed to be loudest in that direction, so Aziraphale hurried to the crack and looked in.

He could see the outline of a pile of dark sheets that reminded him for a second of a nest. 

Steeling himself and trying to think straight, he pushed his way in.

Crowley was curled in the dark room under his bedsheets, unmoving and deathly still. Two massive speakers played through the end of Bicycle, and in the few seconds before Somebody to Love got too loud, Aziraphale called Crowley’s name.

In an instant, Crowley was out of the sheets and looked up. His shoulder length red hair was a mess, and his face was rubbed raw. A flash of fear shot across his face, but it was gone almost instantly. He scrambled for his phone resting on the nightstand and after a few moments of frantic tapping the sound ceased, and in its absence was an unnerving 

“Aziraphale,”

It sounded like he was trying to be aloof, despite his compromising appearance, but he sounded only relieved. The guilt wormed its way into Aziraphale’s stomach.

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale desperately wanted to say more, but his voice fell too short.

“Aziraphale I- I’m really sorry about the other day, I promise I didn’t mean any of it-“ he stopped short, clearly wanting to say more.

Then he kicked the blanket away, running a hand through his messy hair to try to tame it. “It’s not that I didn’t want to eat then, I can’t. Snakes don’t eat when they’re- you know, and I’m sort of the quintessential serpent,” He cringed a little with the words.

The guilt stopped short for a moment as the possibility of a distraction presented itself, and Aziraphale seized It with both hands

“You’re transforming? Isn’t that dangerous?”

Crowley sighed deeply, a performative gesture, not talking about the very obvious subject that needed to be addressed. “I can’t do that either, though I’ve tried,” he half heartedly motioned about to the blankets Aziraphale had correctly identified as a nest.

Aziraphale’s face fell, and that fear jumped back into Crowley’s eyes.

“It’s no big thing, really,”

Crowley balled the sheet up in front of him, looking awfully frightened like a child about to be chastised. He wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes.

He clearly wasn’t okay. Crowley had an unfortunate habit of turning into a snake for extended periods of time when something got particularly heated, and while Aziraphale knew it wasn’t the healthiest of coping mechanisms- but really, who was he to judge- he usually came back feeling better afterward. Existing as a human made one have to deal with all of what came with that- the physical body, the exhaustion of engaging with human society, the thoughts that were conceived the way only a human could think. As a snake, Crowley seemed to be able to shut that all off, return to a simpler state. But even that had been robbed of him.

Aziraphale felt terrible again, but his intellectual ability to solve it melted around his feet.

The words he’d said at their lunch about his inability to love were starting to make a horrible sort of sense in Aziraphale’s mind.

“Crowley, if you need help with all of this-“ he said, frantic to work out a solution while talking.

“No, really.” Crowley looked very uncomfortable, wincing a little and pointing his right foot. “It’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened,” he smiled shakily, though it didn’t reach his eyes. 

Aziraphale’s frustration, guilt, and concern swirled angrily within him, finally boiling over. He threw up his hands, his eyes stinging and his throat tight.

“You’re lying.”

Crowley’s pupils dilated. “Come on, angel,”’ he breathed, trying to laugh. “I mean, it’s not ideal, but I wouldn’t lie to you,” 

“Oh my God,” Aziraphale muttered, guilt constricting his throat like some sort of horrible snake. Crowley reacted instantly, his face wide and pleading. “No I- I promise I’m not-“ he stood up and put his hands in front of him, eager to dispel the tension.

“No, don’t you apologise, I won’t stand for it!” 

Unconsciously, Aziraphale began to pace. “This is my fault. I left you in a compromised position and this situation is something I’m entirely unprepared for. I need to apologise in a way that’s actually meaningful, but I can’t very well do that as long as we aren’t forward with one another.” He turned back to face Crowley, who looked an anxious wreck. “I’m sorry, Crowley.” 

It was more robotic than he intended, like a rehearsed response in a therapy session. Crowley’s face twitched slightly, picking up on the air of unease. 

“Please,” he said, trying to be softer. “Tell me what's going on,” 

Crowley looked at him hard, his face, trying to seek any evidence of deception. 

“I’ll reserve my judgements for heaven.” He said finally, trying to hide his hurt.

Crowley stared at him for a long moment. Then, he deflated, sitting back down on his bed. “It’s awful,” he admitted. “I hate every part of it. I have no energy, but I can’t eat, and it’s constantly moving,” he shuddered, a hand moving to a spot on his lower abdomen where he rubbed slightly, visibly repulsed. “It’s disgusting, angel. I don’t want it.”

Aziraphale felt his heart drop, but reminded himself to stick to his promise.

“You know, until this happened, I got that it was bad,” he sounded mopey, leaning forward to rest his chin on his hands. “But I never got why it was a punishment for original sin,”

Annoyance slipped back into Aziraphale’s head. “You’re being catastrophic,” 

“You really don’t get it,” Crowley shot back, though he seemed more resigned than venomous. “The whole process of living with this thing inside of you for weeks, trying to prepare mentally for what it’s going to do to you, but you can’t.”  
He wrapped an arm around himself. “Then it’s not just there in theory, you can feel it and I can feel it metaphysically. It’s fucking aura. And it’s not a normal aura, angel.” He looked up at the ceiling, his leg beginning to shake. “That’s the worst part. In Eve’s case, at least they got a kid out of it. This thing isn’t a kid.”

He paused for a moment, and Aziraphale didn’t dare to breathe. The tension in the air was palpable.

“You- you don’t know what it feels like to have Her hate you,” Crowley’s words were barely above a whisper. “You can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like. But at least-“ he stopped and took a long breath. “At least I got to feel Her love for a while, before I fell.” He laughed, but behind it was only bitterness, the kind of pain from an ancient scar that still festered. “This child will never feel love like it should. Not from me, not from Her.” A tremor crept into his tone. “You’re right. I thought I could do better. But I just can’t think about it as anything other than a curse.”

Aziraphale’s heart breaks for him. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he lied, pleading for forgiveness,  
“No, you did. I thought about it for a while, and it’s true. I’m no better than a crawling beast, and I won’t ever be.” He spat his former name out with a hurt that shook his whole body.

“Stop it,” Aziraphale said, shaking himself. “Stop doing that, you’re only making this worse.” He rubbed his face angrily. “This is my fault. I’m trying to force you to do something you can’t and I need to fix it,”

Crowley glanced at him, and Aziraphale could see the anger receding, leaving only a drained husk. “Don’t do this, angel,” he muttered. “Please.”

“No, I can fix it.” His anger was gone too, and now the despair fell on them, thick and cloying.  
“What can I do?”

Crowley sighed deeply, considering the question for a long time. Aziraphale could see him warring with himself in that quiet way that he thought was impassive, but Aziraphale could read him so well that he knew impassive was not something Crowley could ever be. His friend wrapped his arms around himself, curled his forehead to his knees, and exhaled.

“Move in with me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.” Crowley stood, tossing his hand to emphasise his point, facing Aziraphale. He looked so incredibly vulnerable that Aziraphale couldn’t bear it

“Crowley, I can’t,” he breathed. “She would- you know I can’t do that,”

Crowley’s face was so hopeful it made Aziraphale sick. 

“Please, angel. Just while- while I get through this,” he dropped one hand to his side and ran the other through his hair. “I need- surely they won’t object if-“

“Crowley.” Aziraphale looked down at his own hands, his throat tight.

“Please?” His voice cracked.

“Is this about us?”

There was silence, and Aziraphale looked up. After a long pause, Crowley shrugged, and Aziraphale’s heart sank.

It was absolutely about “us”.

“Come on, angel, please-“ Crowley tossed his head, stepping back. “Think about it. I know it’s a long shot, but maybe you could, I don’t know, have an affect on it. We both know there’s no way I can be a good influence-“

“Oh, please don’t say that-“ Aziraphale started, trying to think of how to tell Crowley of the magnitude of his influence on him without so many words.

“But it’s true, Aziraphale!” Crowley crossed one arm over his chest. “I’m a demon. The reason hell chose me is that I would be the best possible vessel for evil and I can’t let that happen,” he wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “I know you don’t want…” he trailed off, and looked up at Aziraphale, his yellow eyes pained. “I promise I won’t push you any further. Just-“ he broke contact again and turned away. “If not for me, than for the world?”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale’s metaphysical soul was swirling with emotions like a turbulent sea, but his mind was white and formless. 

“I’ve let this go on too long, I’m sorry.”

Crowley breathed out slowly, and he wrapped his arms around himself. His fingers, which Aziraphale could barely see with him facing away, were trembling.

“But you’re right,” Aziraphale muttered. Crowley’s head lifted, turning slightly towards him but not enough to see his face.

“I,” Aziraphale began, trying to sort out his words carefully with his mind completely blank “I can love them for you, if you can’t right now.” He gave a small smile. “Surely heaven can’t object to that.”

Crowley turned, dropping his hands to his sides. His eyes searched Aziraphale’s face, slowly and with care. After a long moment, he nodded.

“Thank you,”

His voice was tight, quiet, and filled with emotion. Aziraphale pretended he hadn’t seen him blinking furiously.

“I’m tired,” Aziraphale sighed, the tension evaporating. Crowley crossed his arms and smiled wryly, falling into metaphorical step with Aziraphale. The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth quirked ever so slightly, and suddenly he was terrified. They were in the car, at the church, everywhere they had met like this throughout the centuries and despite those years of wanting something like this he wasn’t ready. His eyes must have betrayed something, because Crowley’s own eyes widened in a quizzical manner, searching his face. Aziraphale met them, and just shy of six thousand years of tension crackled through the air, and they were in unfamiliar territory. 

The line was there, apparent before them, and quietly, Aziraphale took a step over it.

“Your place or mine?”

Seeing the genuine smile on Crowley’s face, Aziraphale realised that, for the first time, he didn’t give a damn how this fit into the ineffable plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that took forever.  
> I’m not gonna lie, I really am not proud of this chapter. After I finished the last one I had a lot of plans for this and I don’t know if it wasn’t all fully realised. I feel like I’ve lost the characterisation and it’s all then just fighting, and I feel the argument was resolved too quickly. But I know myself, and I know if I don’t publish it now I probably never will, so it’s as is and maybe I’ll rework it later if I feel I can do better. Also, I didn’t want to remove the tenderness of the missing scene when Aziraphale comes to stay at his flat? I think I have a workaround as to why it would be so meaningful if they live together. The next chapter should be a sweet one, where they actually talk about the pregnancy in a direct way and not just the implications of it. Thank you for all the lovely comments, I’m trying to get back and reply to all of them but I had such horrible writer’s block with this chapter that looking at the responses and feeling like I was going to let people down was upsetting. If you have any feedback or criticism, please let me know. I’m working this out as I go along, but it should get better from here. Thank you all so much!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The little things

They ended up picking Crowley’s flat, deciding that Angels would be less likely to interfere with Aziraphale there, conveniently postponing any real analysis of Aziraphale’s relationship to heaven to a later date. They’d spent time together before, but there was something truly different about the state of their new “arrangement” that Aziraphale didn’t feel like discussing and Crowley didn’t touch. The first awkward culmination of  
the energy came on their first night as- flatmates?- when it was minutes after eleven and Crowley was nodding off at the kitchen table while Aziraphale worked through his long neglected copy of Salomé.

“You should get to bed,” Aziraphale said quietly, setting his book down. He had almost added ‘dear’ to the end of the sentence, but the tension in the air made him refrain.

Crowley tossed his head in a manner that might have been suave, had it not been for the bleariness of his eyes.

“‘Right,” he pushed back the chair and got sleepily to his feet, picking his glasses off the table and hanging then on the collar of his loose fitting black shirt. “Follow me,”

Slightly confused, Aziraphale rose and followed Crowley out of the kitchen and down his hall to the bedroom. However, his confusion went from slight to just confused when Crowley stopped short, staring at his bed.

“Um,” he muttered, awkwardness permeating his words. “I’ve only got the one bed,”

Aziraphale looked at him expectantly, still totally lost as to the trajectory of the conversation.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Crowley muttered, grabbing a pile of sheets and pulling them onto the floor beside the bed. Realisation dawned on Aziraphale, and he put his hands in front of him quickly to try to break the tension. 

“Ah, I- Crowley, I don’t sleep,” Crowley paused, looking up at him, his expression blank.

“Even if I did, there is no way you are doing anything of the sort. You’re already drained as it is, I wouldn’t let you waste an opportunity to sleep properly.”

Crowley didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

“I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable,”

Suddenly, Aziraphale noticed that a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket was terribly interesting.

“You need to rest.” He said finally, choosing his words tentatively.

Crowley blinked. “I can’t miracle a change of clothes.”

Aziraphale puzzled for a moment before he reached comprehension. With a quick apology, he dipped out of the room and closed the door to let Crowley change in peace. However, once outside, he couldn’t think of anything to do besides listen to the quiet thump of clothing through the closed door, which stopped after a short while, enveloping the flat in silence. 

Awkwardly, Aziraphale returned to the kitchen table and opened his book. “What is your parentage, indeed,” he muttered.

Being in someone else’s flat, especially a person as elusively different as Crowley, posed somewhat of an intellectual challenge. Aziraphale had brought a good number of his books, the early medieval “daemone spawne” tomes among them, but Aziraphale was a fast reader, and even faster considering he’d read most of his collection before. He found a Shakespeare kick and blew through the comedies in the nights while Crowley slept, the effort of translating Salomé or tackling something much more intricate seeming utterly exhausting.

When Crowley was awake, which wasn’t often, they spent time quietly avoiding each other, Aziraphale with his books and Crowley preening his plants. Crowley took to long naps in the middle of the day that Aziraphale believed he might not have noticed, dropping off at the kitchen table and at his desk and, one miraculous time, leaning against the wall with a spray bottle dangling from his hand. It would have been amusing had it not been for the bedraggled look of him, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel sorry for him.

He was showing more apparently now. His stomach was too small to read as obviously pregnant to the human eye, especially in his masculine form, but to Aziraphale it made an amazing difference. Crowley made an effort not to show it, but Aziraphale was a keen observer, and in certain moments it stopped all other thought as he observed it in the barest possible sense. The way Crowley touched his stomach gingerly when he didn’t see Aziraphale looking, how he eased himself into his chairs, how he adjusted his clothes and let his hand linger for a bit longer than strictly necessary. Crowley didn’t wear his glasses often, and sometimes he would catch Aziraphale staring. He would say nothing, but an expression Aziraphale couldn’t place entered his eyes and he held Aziraphale’s gaze until Aziraphale grew embarrassed and looked away.

On this particular morning, Aziraphale was making tea as quietly as he could while Crowley woke up, was sick, and changed, trying not to make him feel too bad. Crowley was taking rather longer than usual, and so Aziraphale had just decided to be indulgent and begun to search for some honey when a frustrated growl came from the direction of the bedroom.

“Everything all right?” Aziraphale called.

“Fine,” Crowley responded, though it sounded as if he was lost in thought and not a definitive answer.  
A few minutes later, Aziraphale heard what sounded like fabric being flung violently at the door.  
“Aziraphale?”

“Hm?”

A pause. “Do you have any other pants?”

He sounded terribly embarrassed. 

Aziraphale abandoned his tea and stood just outside the door. “I don’t believe so,”

A muffled noise that might have been a scream into a pillow.

Aziraphale’s curiosity got the better of him and he knocked. “Can I help you?”

“Come on,” muttered Crowley, and Aziraphale entered to see him lying on his bed with his feet dangling off the side and a pillow over his face. A sheet was gathered over his middle and legs and there were various pairs of jeans and skirts tossed about the floor. 

Crowley mumbled something into the pillow.

“Sorry?”

“They don’t fit,” he repeated, exasperation tinged with embarrassment coating his speech.

“Oh,” Aziraphale’s mind kicked into overdrive as he tried to sort out a solution. “I could miracle something for you, if you’d like,”

“It’ll look atrocious,” Crowley whined, but he removed the pillow and hauled himself up. “No offense, angel, but you have no sense of style that belongs in the current century.”

“At least it’ll fit,” Aziraphle replied neatly, procuring a pair of black sweatpants and handing them over. Crowley grimaced, but snatched the pants away. Aziraphale left him to change and hurriedly cleaned up his tea supplies. 

“‘S’alright,” Crowley muttered, plopping down at the kitchen table a short while later. Sensing his thanks, Aziraphale smiled and pretended to go back to reading All’s Well that Ends Well.

They had barely been living together a week before another development was revealed to Aziraphale. They had been sitting in the office, Crowley sunning himself in his desk chair and Aziraphale sitting in a cozy armchair he had miracled for himself given Crowley’s lack of comfortable furniture. Crowley had slipped into a doze, his head lolled to one side and his glasses beginning to slip off when an analog ringing sounded through the flat, jolting both him and Aziraphale into consciousness. With a quick glance at Aziraphale, Crowley pressed a button on his voicemail machine, the originator of the sound, and removed his glasses. 

“Hail Satan, demon Crawley,”

“Hail Satan,” Crowley responded.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened and he looked at Crowley for an explanation. Crowley shook his head.

“I trust you know the purpose of our meeting,” a voice drawled, full of venom. Definitely a demon.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s get it over with,” Crowley replied with false confidence. Aziraphale looked at him again, his mind whirling with questions.

“Time elapsed?”

“Eighteen weeks this Sunday, Hastur,” Crowley drawled, his voice the antithesis of his posture.   
His pupils were growing wider, and his hand began to shake. Aziraphale gave him what he hoped was a reassuring look and folded his hands in his lap.

“Any further symptoms?” Hastur sounded bored, but under it, Aziraphale detected a hint of jealousy.

“Just the usual,” Crowley drummed his fingers nervously, and Aziraphale wondered if he should reach out and hold his hand. He didn’t.  
“Morning sickness, tiredness, mood swings,” he set his jaw. “Weight gain. Is that all you need?”

“You are favoured, Demon Crawley.”

“Uh, you too.” Crowley made eye contact with Aziraphale. “Evening.”

He quickly shut off the voicemail machine.

Crowley broke the eye contact and didn’t look back at Aziraphale for a good while.

“It’s eleven in the morning, dear.” Aziraphale couldn’t think of how to articulate the billions of questions he had in his mind, so he stuck to that.

Crowley widened his eyes in exasperation. “I could tell them that I’d sprouted a tail and horns and they’d believe me, they never bother to check.”

“They call every week?”

“Mostly.” Crowley leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. “I know Hastur would like to call more, but I got rid of a lot of the stuff they can contact me through.”

“Must be delightful,” Aziraphale muttered sarcastically.

Crowley gave him a wry grin. “Oh, it is,”  
He closed his eyes and, with a flourish, replaced his glasses upon his face. 

“It’d be as fun as contacting your people, I suspect.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together in an expression of agreement. “Indeed.”

He stood at that moment. “Would you like some water?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not sure I could keep it down,”

“Well, you can try,” Aziraphale proposed, heading out of the room.

While he found and filled two glasses in Crowley’s stylish sink, he pondered the situation. He just couldn’t understand the reasoning behind it- and, to be fair, loathe be anyone who questions the will of the man Downstairs- but he couldn’t wrap his head around it.

He returned and set one glass down in front of his friend.

“Forgive my question, but, if you dislike the idea of carrying a child so much, why didn’t they just let Hastur do it?” 

Crowley blinked at him, then Aziraphale watched his eyes as he scanned for an answer to the question.

“Dunno, if I’m honest,” Crowley admitted, shrugging with an apologetic look on his face. “Wish I did,” he added, worrying his bottom lip in his teeth.

“Interesting,” murmured Aziraphale, leaning back in his chair. 

“Don’t have anything about this in your books, do you?” Crowley offered noncommittally.

“I’m afraid nothing applicable,” Aziraphale sighed.  
Crowley looked at him in that mysterious way he sometimes did, and took the glass and brought it to his lips.

“I’m going to bed, then,” he said against the cup, draining it in a long sip.

He pushed himself to his feet with his empty hand, Aziraphale wondering too late if he should offer help, and left the room.

Aziraphale sipped his own water thoughtfully, his eyes remaining on the slightly open door.  
There had to be an explanation for all of this, some sort of reason that could be sorted out. 

But he couldn’t get his head around it.

To take his mind off of things, he returned to the bookshop for the day, being around his treasured volumes comforting. Creative people had discovered things beyond comprehension before, and that was saying something, as humans could be notoriously thick headed at times. Herodotus had tried to synthesise the past for the future, Shakespeare every emotion in the human experience, Milton gave explaining God’s plan for the universe a shot, and Dante had tried his best (though, to his credit, his task was impossible. Humans just could not comprehend heaven and hell, and he’d done quite a good job on the parts he’d gotten right). And the situation the angel found himself in had, perhaps, one precedent, and even then, the circumstances were quite the opposite in most regards. Aziraphale organised his George Bernard Shaw first editions, quietly shutting his mind off and losing himself among the shelves.

When he returned to the flat, it was late in the evening. The whole flat was dark, apart from light from London’s myriad streetlights and store windows as well as the new moon, which was perfectly framed in the slight opening of one window Crowley had neglected to cover.

Crowley’s bedroom door was open and he was sitting on his bed, his back to Aziraphale with his red hair hanging loose around his shoulders. 

Sending a quick prayer for guidance, Aziraphale knocked on the open door.

“You’re usually asleep by now,”

Crowley looked over his shoulder, his yellow eyes glinting in the moonlight. “Couldn’t sleep,” he licked his lips and turned away. “I think too much, Aziraphale,” he said, tossing his head.

“About what?” Aziraphale came to stand behind him to the side of the bed, nearly tripping on a discarded shirt in the process.

“Take a guess,” his laugh was humourless.

“Don’t think about it now, they’ll be plenty of time for that later,” Aziraphale tried, though he didn’t feel a great sense of personal conviction.

Crowley looked at the ceiling. “Thinking is what I’m made for, angel.”

“Point taken,” Aziraphale said, for it was the only thing he could think to say. Crowley looked back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

“You can touch it, if you’d like,” Crowley was quiet, his voice containing a tenderness that Aziraphale had never heard before. 

Aziraphale’s heart leapt into his throat, suddenly apprehensive. “Really?”

Crowley’s face fell. “You don’t have to, of course, I just thought maybe- I mean, I don’t want you to think I’m forcing you or anything-,”

“No, I’d like to,” Aziraphale breathed, anticipation thudding against his nonexistent ribs.

Crowley nodded and, somewhat awkwardly, inclined his head to the spot next to him.  
Aziraphale, with an equal amount of awkwardness, sat beside him.

They remained in uneasy silence for a while, until Crowley reached out and grabbed Aziraphale’s wrist with the grace of a bull in a China shop. Aziraphale gave him a nervous smile, and let his friend guide his hand and place it gently on his stomach.

Moonlight slipped through the curtains and alighted on Crowley’s face, his pupils wide and his face uncertain. As Aziraphale watched, his hand trembled slightly as his long fingers carefully covered Aziraphale’s own, facilitating the contact with the same hesitation as a person approaches putting their hand into a swarm of bees.

Aziraphale felt the physical presence of Crowley, of his child, and could barely breathe.

A small tap pressed up against Aziraphale’s hand, startling them both so much that Aziraphale removed his hand at once and Crowley grimaced.  
“Sorry,” Said Crowley just as Aziraphale muttered “My apologies,”

Their eyes met uneasily, and after a moment Aziraphale raised his hand again.

“May I?”

Crowley nodded, taking his wrist again and replacing his hand, firmer in purpose. A flurry of movement occurred in response.

Aziraphale laughed, an involuntary noise that escaped from him before he had known it was prompted. He met Crowley’s eyes again, who looked incredibly unsure, but allowed a smile to grace his features. Resolute, Crowley reached out and touched Aziraphale’s other hand, and Aziraphale let him guide him to another place near his navel. 

“Here,” he breathed, and Aziraphale was acutely aware of the heat of Crowley’s hands and the skin underneath his shirt. Another kick, more forceful this time, pressed against Aziraphale’s first hand. 

“He’s not often so polite,” Crowley remarked, his light tone hiding the enormity of the subtext passing back and forth between them. “Usually it’s nonstop,”

“Really,” Aziraphale was at a loss for words, smiling uncontrollably. He looked back at Crowley, the corner of his lip quirked upwards.

“Crowley,” He murmured, the feeling of his hands on Aziraphale’s electric, lightning shots of particles whirring through their connected skin. 

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale removed his hands and wrapped his arms around Crowley, who gave a startled yelp and tumbled backwards, rolling Aziraphale to his side. “That’s wonderful!” Aziraphale laughed, smiling from ear to ear, one of which was pressed up against the bed.

“Is it?” Crowley’s hair was splayed out on the sheet above him, the loose fabric of his shirt hanging from one shoulder and exposing his collarbone closest to the sheets. He sounded embarrassed, but his eyes were the brightest Aziraphale had seen in a long time.

“Yes!” He shook Crowley’s shoulders slightly.  
Crowley grinned, a huge, genuine grin with raised eyebrows and bright teeth, embarrassment and pride and joy all mushed together.

He closed the distance between them, his hands just barely trembling as he pulled Aziraphale into a tight hug. 

Aziraphale squeezed him back, his laughter fading to a comfortable smile. 

They lay like that together, and didn’t move until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m quite proud of that scene.  
> Also, I adore Shakespeare, so I hope all of the allusions and references get across. I figured a softer chapter might help, given they fight in almost every one. This chapter actually got too long and I wanted to end with the bedroom scene so I took one out to put in a later chapter. Hastur’s characterisation is literally terrible, but in my defense I have not been able to find scenes of him on YouTube that would help me get the flow of his dialogue. The kind comments on the last chapter were so heartwarming and inspiring, and I’ll get to responding them as soon as I can. Thank you all so much!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale discuss various topics pertaining to the human experience, with relative success

“What are we going to do, angel?” 

Crowley was sitting up in bed, brushing his hair in the yellowish glow of a bedside lamp.

Aziraphale looked up from the Shaw play he had brought over from the bookshop. He had brought his armchair into the bedroom, because while he did not sleep, he had held Crowley while he did, and found being near his friend when he slept was- comforting? It was difficult and wholly inappropriate (an angel and a demon, what would heaven say??) but he found it increasingly pedantic to interrogate himself over his motivations. 

“Pardon?” 

“After this,” he put his brush down, running his hand back and forth across the sheet. “When he’s born,”

“Well,” Aziraphale began, inclining his head slightly to demonstrate the extemporaneous nature of his answer. “The end of the world, I suppose,” 

“It won’t happen immediately,” Crowley shrugged, leaning back against his pillows. “He’ll have to come into his own power. That won’t happen for a number of years, at least.” 

“So,” Aziraphale began, hardly daring to hope. “We have time,” 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, looking tired and perhaps a bit sad. 

“Maybe,” 

“What do you mean?” 

“We won’t have much,” Crowley pressed a finger into his temple. “It shouldn’t take long. Eleven years, I think,” he furrowed his brow. “We’ll have some time, but not enough,”

“We can try,” Aziraphale implored. “We may not be working under the best of circumstances but we can try,” 

“You can try,” Crowley snorted, pulling on the bottom of his shirt. “I’d probably better leave as soon as this is over with if he has any chance.” 

“When did it become a he?” Aziraphale replied saucily, both from a desire to know, but also a want to distract Crowley from that train of thought. It would come, he knew. But it was late, and if Crowley could sidestep a difficult subject, Aziraphale could emulate him. 

“A couple days,” Crowley said, smiling and rolling his eyes. 

“And how did you find that out?” Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling a bit smug. 

“I don’t know, angel,” Crowley threw back, raising his eyebrows in mock exasperation. “I figured maybe you should know for when you’re around him,”   
Aziraphale faltered in his evasiveness. “You’ll be there too, Crowley,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice. 

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Crowley wasn’t smiling anymore. 

“You’re not passing this child off to me to raise alone,” Aziraphale was stern, but his heart was thumping with worry.

“Why not? It’d be much better for him,” Crowley tossed his head, agitated. 

“No it wouldn’t,” Aziraphale sighed. “I've never been good around children,” Crowley,” he said quietly, staring blankly at the black sheets. 

“No?” Crowley looked legitimately surprised. 

“No,” Aziraphale repeated, his throat tight. “I can’t seem to relate to them, somehow,” 

“You seemed very excited when I spoke about him,” Crowley tilted his head to the side, studying him.

“I am, I am,” Aziraphale began, exasperated glancing about the room to avoid looking him in the eyes. “On principle,”

“Principle?” Crowley snorted. “How does one like children on principle,”

“Well, I understand that they are- good, I suppose,” he paused, trying to choose words as not to sound utterly ridiculous “Gifts from god, in fact,” 

Crowley burst out laughing. “Gifts from- her?” He put the hairbrush on the bedside table under the lamp. “I wouldn’t say that,” 

Clearly his choice was the wrong one. 

“I’m trying,” Aziraphale whined, “Children are- difficult, to me,” 

“Oh, kids are easy- they’re basically little demons themselves,” Crowley leaned back onto his pillows. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, worrying his bottom lip in his teeth.  
“I wanted one, you know,” 

“What?”

“A kid, back in those days,” he shrugged, raising his hands above the bed. “I mean, I thought about it, a good deal,” 

“Why didn’t you?” Crowley was speaking in that part cynical, part wistful tone that he used when he was speaking of something for the first time, and, in untrodden territory, Aziraphale tried to be light with his questioning to avoid shutting him down. 

“Well, I couldn’t very well adopt one,” Crowley began, his eyes focused on something only he could see. “I mean, I did, several, over the years,”

“You had children?” Aziraphale was incredulous. Crowley having children was not something he could conceptualise, even when he was pregnant in front of him. 

“I suppose,” Crowley took his thumbnail and pressed it between his top front teeth. “They weren’t really mine, of course- angels always beat me to the orphans- but I bloody well raised a few who had inattentive parents,” 

Aziraphale leaned forward in his chair, his play forgotten in his lap. “Why didn’t you just- take them? Raise them as your own?” 

Crowley laughed humourlessly. 

“They die.” 

“How do you mean?” 

There was a spot of blood on Crowley’s lip where he’d bitten it raw. “Mortals grow old, and they don’t believe in you anymore, and they have to die.” There was a sentimental note to Crowley’s voice Aziraphale had only ever heard when they were drunk. He shook himself and wiped his mouth, sitting up again and staring down at the red smear on his hand like he had never seen anything like it before. Aziraphale couldn’t meet his eyes. 

“So I stopped doing the kid thing,” Crowley didn’t cry, but Aziraphale could hear the pain in his voice, despite his apathetic façade. 

“What about having your own?” Aziraphale mentioned softly. “It’s what you’re doing now,” 

“He’s not mine, Aziraphale,” Crowley drawled frostily. He turned his head to face the opposite wall, one hand drumming quickly on the dark sheets while the other balled them in a fist. 

Chastised, Aziraphale looked down at his hands and busied himself with examining a spot on the cover of his play that he hadn’t seen before. The silence that enveloped them was uncomfortable, like the moment after a question that went on too long, and Aziraphale began to feel uneasy with anticipation. 

“Crowley-“ he began, an olive branch to pull him past the topic and onto comfortable ground again.

“Leave it.” There was venom in his voice, but it didn’t quite feel like it was directed at him. A beat. Sighing, Crowley leaned his head back, his tongue flicking out to taste the blood on his lip. 

“I thought about having my own, but I had no guarantee they would be immortal,” he looked over at Aziraphale, but his eyes stayed focused on a point behind him on the wall. “Even if they were, I didn't want to make that choice for a child.” 

“I never thought about that,” Aziraphale offered, truthfully. He hadn’t thought about most things Crowley was saying. 

He rolled his eyes, a glow of warmth returning to them like embers. “Also, the entire process of conception never quite agreed with me,” 

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” 

Crowley looked over at him with a dry puzzlement. “Sex, angel.”

“Sex?” He hated to sound so scandalised.

“Right,” Crowley’s lip twitched in amusement. 

“I don’t understand,” Said Aziraphale with finality, leaning back. 

“I’ve never had it,” Aziraphale was not an unfazeable person, but he was taken aback.

“Never?” 

“Nope,” Crowley popped the p, resting a hand on his upper thigh. 

“Huh,” couldn’t think of what else to say. 

“What, have you?” Crowley looked at him with a lopsided smile on his face. 

Aziraphale felt his whole face go red. 

Crowley’s smile morphed into an incredulous expression. “No!” 

“It was one time,” Aziraphale willed his vessel to cooperate. “And I don’t intend on repeating it,” 

“You, angel, committing original sin?” Crowley laughed, leaning forward and folding his legs in. “I don’t believe it, I genuinely don’t,” 

“Don’t put it that way, it sounds obscene,” Aziraphale grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

“You cannot just say that and not explain yourself,” Crowley breathed, shaking his head.

“It’s really not a matter of your concern,” Aziraphale flicked open his book. 

Crowley sighed exaggeratedly. “Don’t be like that, angel,” 

“It was for a friend,” Aziraphale said pointedly. “Besides, it was such a long time ago,” 

Crowley crossed his arms “How paradoxical,” he wobbled his head with fake importance. Then he broke out into an alarmingly mischievous grin. “I suppose that you did a bad thing and I did a good one, eh?” 

“It’s not a bad thing,” Aziraphale snapped, something inside him fraying. Crowley’s voice was like a box cutter, slowly cutting the weaving until it finally broke, threads all short and messy. “It’s a human form of intimacy,” 

Crowley fake gagged. “How could one be intimate like that?” He muttered scornfully. “All those… appendages, and fluids…” he made a face. “Perfectly horrid, if you ask me,” 

“Crowley, I do not need to justify my actions to you,” he rolled his eyes. 

“Who was it with?”

The dreaded question. Aziraphale pressed his left middle finger into the side of his nose ridge, trying to calm himself. “He died a long time ago,” 

In an instant, Crowley‘a playful mood evaporated, and Aziraphale could almost hear him think as he absorbed the information. “How long?” He asked, his voice sensitive. 

Aziraphale gave a half smile, more to comfort Crowley than of any genuine joy. “I’d rather not talk about him.” 

Crowley looked at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Death is- strange,” he finally said, awkward in his delivery. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Crowley shrugged. “It’s just something I’ve been thinking about, and you didn’t want to talk about him further,” he emphasised the word ‘him’ almost without any apparent consciousness of it. 

“Death is a punishment,” Aziraphale’s speech was stilted, trying to reason through it on the fly. “Given to humans for their disobedience,” 

“Seems rather rude,” Crowley said offhandedly. Then, he started as if something had just occurred to him. “If it’s a punishment, why doesn’t my lot die, then?” He seemed to be asking the question more to himself than anything. 

Aziraphale couldn’t think of an answer. He hated when he couldn’t think of an answer. “It’s all part of the divine plan, you know,” he finished unsatisfyingly. 

“It’s strange, really,” Crowley started scratching his tear duct with a fingernail. “I can’t even imagine what it would be like,” He wasn’t present any longer, Aziraphale could tell. That wistful note had returned to his voice. 

“Angels and demons have died before,” he offered unhelpfully. “It’s always been for the greater good,” he added, feeling stupid as soon as he said it. 

“The greater good,” Crowley said the words slowly, contemplating the concept itself. 

“Yes, I think,” 

There was a long pause as Crowley stared ahead, his eyes focused on something Aziraphale couldn’t see. 

“You know he’ll have to die, Aziraphale,” Crowley said quietly, no joy in his voice.  
“I’m just trying to be realistic,” he set his jaw and blinked hard, his voice faltering with emotion. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale murmured, the last piece clicking into place and revealing the image long hidden from clarity. “Is this what you’ve been worried about?” 

“How could I not be?” Crowley rolled over to face away from Aziraphale. “I’m not supposed to be upset about this,” 

“Anyone would be,” Aziraphale mused, not directly to Crowley.

“Is It punishment, then?” Crowley said, flinging an arm in the air. “I’m being punished by having to carry him.” 

“I don’t think so,” Aziraphale meant it. Then, almost to himself. “Pregnancy as punishment is something only heaven would do.” 

The silence lengthened, and the buzz of it pulsed against Aziraphale’s ears until they almost hurt. The line that they’d been dancing about in the last couple of months had become so blurry it was a miracle Aziraphale even saw it at all. Aziraphale swallowed his apprehension and placed his book lightly on the table. 

“Let me brush your hair,” Aziraphale said, standing at the side of the bed. 

Crowley looked surprised, anxious, and something else Aziraphale couldn’t place. “I’ll just brush it and then braid it. It’s been a while since you’ve had it curly.” 

Crowley looked at him for a long moment, then slid forward and let Aziraphale sit behind him. “I have a spray bottle in the top drawer.” 

Aziraphale procured the bottle and sat behind him, his left leg folded behind Crowley and pressing lightly into his back. He took the brush off the stand and started to work his way through the ends, which were relatively free of knots, more out of habit than anything. Crowley leaned back a little, allowing his head to be manipulated by the gentle pulling of the brush, and he shut his eyes when Aziraphale sprayed his hair, a fine mist settling over the both of them. 

“What were you reading?” He said quietly after a few minutes. 

Aziraphale felt his face go hot, glad Crowley couldn’t see. “Just a Shaw play,” 

“Which one?” Crowley murmured, tiredness coating his words. 

“Oh, you haven’t seen it,” Aziraphale laughed nervously. 

“Can’t say I haven’t until I know what it is,” Crowley enunciated the consonants, lolling his head back a bit with a particularly difficult knot. 

“Man and Superman,” Aziraphale said quietly, spraying the bottle again. Crowley shrugged ever so slightly. 

“You’re right,” 

“It’s a different sort of work,” Aziraphale muttered, mostly to himself. 

“What’s it about?” Crowley said, his voice taking a dreamlike quality, 

“It’s a comedy of manners,” Aziraphale said, almost nervous. 

“Give It here,” Crowley held out a hand, and hesitantly, Aziraphale reaches over to where the book was resting on his armchair and handed it to him. Crowley fanned the pages, settling somewhere two thirds of the way in. “No; but there is justice in hell: heaven is far above such idle human personalities.” Crowley sounded slightly surprised. “You will be welcome in hell, Señora. Hell is the home of honor, duty, justice, and the rest of the seven deadly virtues. All the wickedness on earth is done in their name: where else but in hell should they have their reward? Have I not told you that the truly damned are those who are happy in hell?” He turned to look back over his shoulder. “Is he right?” 

“Of course not,” Aziraphale replied tersely. “It’s just…” he tried to wrap his mind around the words “...An interesting rationalisation, that’s all.” 

Crowley thumbed through the pages. “In hell, Señora, the Devil is the leader of the best society.” He snorted. “Couldn’t be more wrong there,” he muttered, almost to himself. 

Aziraphale could hardly remember a time he had been so glad to be facing away from Crowley. 

“You like this?” Crowley wasn’t condescending, but genuinely curious. 

“I know it’s not the most- accurate representation,” Aziraphale felt his face burn. 

“Ah, no human ever is,” he scanned the pages, skipping forward through the conversation. Aziraphale felt his hands almost tremble with apprehension.   
“...but the strain of living in Heaven is intolerable. There is a notion that I was turned out of it; but as a matter of fact nothing could have induced me to stay there,” Aziraphale could feel Crowley stiffen under his hands. Crowley took a pause, and Aziraphale thought he might not continue, but he did, softer this time. “ I simply left it and organized this place.” Crowley brushed a hand over his temple, pausing for a fraction of a second on his snake tattoo before pushing his hair behind his ear. “It seems more fun than the reality of it, doesn’t it?” 

Aziraphale took the bottle and sprayed his hair again. 

“Yes.” 

There was a moment of silence, but Aziraphale could tell Crowley was alert and thinking. 

“Aziraphale, if you want to talk about it-“ 

“I don’t,” Aziraphale interjected, colder than he’d intended. Silence slunk into the room like a wounded animal. “I don’t know what to feel about all of this right now,” he added softly. 

“‘S’alright,” Crowley was still thinking, but he didn’t speak further as Aziraphale started braiding a section of his hair at the base of his skull. 

“I didn’t mean to offend-“ Aziraphale began after a couple of minutes, shame flooding his voice. 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Crowley muttered, closing the book and slipping into tiredness. “We can just be people for a while, if that’s what you want.” 

Aziraphale chuckled in spite of himself. “Nothing about this situation suggests that we’re just people, dear,” 

“I mean it,” Crowley leaned away from Aziraphale’s braiding. He placed the book gingerly on the nightstand, next to his folded sunglasses, and they both tried to ignore the pressure from above and below. 

By the time he was done working Crowley’s auburn hair into a myriad of small braids, Crowley was fast asleep. 

Gently, Aziraphale eased himself back to try to remove himself, but Crowley just leaned back as well, his head rolling back and incredibly close to Aziraphale’s face. White hot shame coursed through Aziraphale, and for a second, he was frozen, unsure of what to do. 

Crowley sighed gently and melted into him perfectly comfortable where he was. 

Softly, Aziraphale moved his arm around to pull the blanket back over them when the side of his hand brushed against Crowley’s stomach. 

A flurry of movement made him gasp, and he paused, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. He felt the light pressure again, and he hesitantly shifted his hand so his palm was resting against the shirt that separated skin from skin. 

Something tender tugged at Aziraphale’s heart, feeling Crowley’s body heat against his shoulder, and he instantly felt a mix of embarrassment, shame, and fear swirl within him. He was letting his guard down, he knew. They couldn’t be like this. It wasn’t sensible. There was no way in heaven or hell that anything like their current arrangement could continue for very long. It was destined to go out, up like a Roman candle, down like a lead balloon. 

But in that moment, as he sat there with Crowley laying against him, it felt nice. 

Aziraphale was beginning to think nice was all the explanation he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, making references to plays no one else cares about? It’s more likely than you think.
> 
> In all seriousness, Man and Superman by George Bernard Shaw, particularly the third act, Don Juan in hell, is very interesting and I don’t fully understand it, but it is magnificent. I believe there’s reading of it on Audible which is wonderful. 
> 
> I’m considering writing the next chapter about Aziraphale’s “friend”, with no appearance from Crowley at all. Would any of you be interested in that? I was going to add it as a flashback in this chapter (which was originally supposed to be part of the last chapter) but I figured it would probably be better either stand alone or another’s fanfiction entirely. If I do that or stick to the outline, it will probably be a while before the next chapter is out, unfortunately. I just returned to school and am in the midst of rehearsal for a show right now, and when I’m not doing that I’m working on my Beelzebub costume. But I haven’t forgotten about this fic, which I am determined to finish out of spite (and all the lovely comments, which give me so much joy). 
> 
> I’m trying to soften them for now, because (spoilers) the next few chapters are going to get very angsty. Hopefully the characterisation is still somewhat recognisable. Thank you so much for sticking with me thus far!

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not incredibly happy with how this turned out, and I don’t think I got the characterisation quite right. However, I thought I’d put it out anyway to see if I can motivate myself to continue it.
> 
> Also please note I wrote this on my phone and though I reviewed it for errors there are still probably some. I apologise.


End file.
